


Waltzing

by apostapals (apostapal)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Hawke, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 09:36:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8707216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apostapal/pseuds/apostapals
Summary: Prompt fill. Varric's imagination is sometimes all he's got to keep him warm.





	

It’s the things he doesn’t write that he misses most, on cloudy days when the Inquisition isn’t busy _inquisiting_ anything.

Varric sits and watches the fire and imagines, for a moment, that Hawke is there. He can almost hear their laugh perfectly in the echoing halls around him. He can almost see their smile, bright and warm, in the low lighting.

They offer him a hand, bowing slightly, and ask him to join them. Just like nights in The Hanged Man, but without the smell of piss and ale and ale that’s like piss, and he takes it like a blanket offered on a cold night. They pull him into the center of the room, in front of everyone, and eventually con him into waltzing. Something slow and simple–his feet always stumble over the more complex dances.

They dance and don’t care that everyone sees. That everyone knows that, after all this time, it wasn’t Blondie or Broody or Daisy or Riviani who got Hawke’s heart. They don’t worry that everyone now realizes what meaning Hawke’s _‘Favorite Dwarf’_ really means.

He can almost feel them, see them, smell them… They’re wonderful and right. They’re the sunrise after the longest night of his life.

Then someone taps his shoulder and it’s gone. _Poof._

“Are you feeling alright, Varric?” the Inquisitor asks, concerned.

Varric shrugs, eyes lingering on the imagined dance floor, and sighs. “Yeah,” he says finally, “just daydreaming.”

Hawke’s still just a letter away. He could bring them there, finally have them back in his reach, but it wouldn’t be right. Hawke’s suffered enough. There are templars and mages and conflict all over the place, even with the Inquisitor’s best efforts, and he can’t–won’t let them step into this again.

One day, he’ll see Hawke again. They’ll laugh and ask him to dance and, two left feet or not, he will. Because it’s Hawke and he’ll do anything for them.

_Anything._ Even be far away, all alone, and dealing with shit the likes of which he never wanted or expected to see in his life.

For now, he’s got his imagination. A writer’s is always the most potent of them all, anyway.

He’ll get by, replaying those nights at The Hanged Man when he can.


End file.
